The Enlisted: The Price of Service No One Tells You

By Skyla Pearson

The Enlisted: The Price of Service No One Tells You. In her debut book, Pearson sheds light on the tough realities she faced as a black, enlisted woman serving in the U.S. Navy, and draws attention to what other young women are sure to encounter.

Pearson's book is drawn from a journal she kept during her five years of service in the U.S. N

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tactical 16 Publishing
• Release date: Apr 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781087919997

Skyla Pearson

Skyla Pearson is a recipient of the United States Navy Good Conduct Medal as well as the Navy and Marine Corps Achievement Medal (NAM). After joining the Navy in 2017 as an Undesignated Seaman, she arrived at her first duty station in Norfolk, Virginia shortly thereafter. Over the next four years, Skyla would work very hard to climb the ranking ladder and acquire her rank as Logistics Specialist Second Class Petty Officer (Surface Warfare/Air Warfare). During this time, she also successfully completed two deployments in and around Middle Eastern seas and territories, accumulating just over two years of time at sea. After an appreciated journey, Skyla decided to end her Naval career in Lemoore, California, her final duty station, and was Honorably discharged in August of 2021.Now a Veteran, Skyla currently resides in the city of Tuscaloosa as she attends the University of Alabama. She is using her GI Bill to Major in English with a focus on Creative Writing and plans to continue her pursuit of literary work as she prepares to write her second book. Although her time in the Navy mostly provided her with anything she needed, Skyla Pearson wanted nothing more than to have the opportunity to make up for time with her family which was lost as she served her country. Mentally, she is in a great place and plans to stay there.

Book preview

PART I

HOW IT ALL STARTED

1

WHY DID I JOIN THE NAVY?

This is some bullshit !

Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!

Harsh, I know, but the sentiment was the only thought echoing loudly in the back of my head on a constant loop. Exhaustion had taken over every fiber of my being as I dragged my sore, sluggish body toward my designated bunk in my floating workplace. It was another brutally long and physically demanding shift, but there would not be an opportunity to wind down and relax because Uncle Sam laughed off the idea of solace by way of an unexpected announcement.

The deployment would be extended AGAIN.

It wasn’t as if the captain’s words were foreign to me because this was the third time I’d heard them on this particular deployment, but this time the gravity of it was far heavier than ever before. It felt like I had the weight of a sumo wrestler juggling elephants on my shoulders, to be exact. And though I’d been strong enough to internalize the words our captain had delivered so callously, they chipped away at my numbed emotions until my dwindling patience was raw and exposed.

The strong, unbreakable Black woman façade that I became accustomed to wearing began to melt at the heat of the announcement. When I’d originally received the news that we were deploying, it was with the promise that I’d be returned to my own queen-sized bed by now, instead of my berthing quarters, and would be able to walk freely around Hanford, the California town in the south-central San Joaquin Valley where I live.

I’d spent weeks marking the days in my mind’s calendar, and the ones on the calendar that hung inside my rack. Each big ‘X’ that was drawn through the dates served as an emotional anchor and emphasized how close I was to being able to see my parents or be in the arms of my loving guy again. But now, they were nothing more than a mocking reminder of the dashed hopes and deception the military constantly served up on a shiny red, white, and blue platter.

The news was a devastating two-piece blow to my psyche and emotions, threatening to make my knees buckle right then and there as I made my way through the floating vessel navigating through a Middle Eastern sea. To say I was homesick would be the biggest understatement of the century, but when you compounded the swelling disappointment in the pit of my stomach that the extension created with the reason for delay to dry land, it was enough to make anyone physically sick. And a compromised immune system during this deployment could cost a sailor their life.

When we first got the orders to ship out, no one could have predicted the outbreak of an airborne coronavirus called SARS-CoV-2, also known as COVID-19, that would cause a global pandemic and change the entire landscape of how the world would operate. There has never been a time in my recent memory that I can recall the same widespread uncertainty and terror that came over everyone when the number of cases began to rise to alarming numbers at breakneck speeds. The number of rumors and stories that spawned from the outbreak became mortifying and hard to keep up with. News outlets around the world presented coverage of the pandemic, and that left every sailor and civilian on my ship with nothing else to talk about.

The news says the virus began its transmission from a host of exotic bats…

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I hear the virus originated in Asia…

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…It seems depression and suicide rates have spiked since the start of Covid-19…

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Apparently the CDC recommends that you wear protective face coverings in public and maintain a safe social distance of six feet or more…

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My family makes their own masks to save money...

Never-ending coverage of this mysterious and rapidly spreading threat left me anxious as virus-related deaths broke record numbers before anyone could even determine its origins or fully understand its symptoms. The sailors on board my ship – nearly 5,000 – were stir-crazy and in limbo with no idea of when we would be able to have person-to-person contact with civilization outside our vessel, let alone with our loved ones.

As I entered my makeshift ‘room’ with sorrow and frustration playing tug-of-war with my emotions, I was forced to renege what already limited control of my life that I had to quarantine in the dank, lonely, military-commissioned vessel for an undetermined amount of time. Under these conditions, stuck at sea indefinitely while the people dearest to my heart fought a deadly disease nobody knew how to properly combat, I pondered a full array of questions about what led me to this moment.

Why in the hell did I even join the Navy? I mumbled bitterly to myself as I stood next to my rack trying to draft up an escape plan.

I’d asked myself that question multiple times during my enlistment, mostly during times when I’d be forced to wake up at the ass crack of dawn for drills or to stand watch – moments when my individuality was watered down to the point that I nearly didn’t recognize myself in the mirror once donning my uniform. Before now though, the feelings of confusion would have dissipated, but this wasn’t one of those past times.

The news of the extension rocked me to my core and made me reexamine my existence in a career that provided me a cushy life when I was off duty or simply in port. Every civilian who discovered I was active-duty military would high-five my hand and sing me praises. To them, I was living the dream: in my mid-twenties, a homeowner without any children, I had a stable career that not only paid the bills but left money in my pockets afterward.

But the shiny, materialistic glow that came from brand new items had dulled and was no longer worth the ride on the emotional roller coaster I had to endure to receive them. The sense of pride that used to cloak my entire being when I slipped into my service blues was long gone, replaced by a severe case of signer’s remorse for agreeing to turn over the reins of my life to a system that had no respect for who I was as an individual – a program where, beneath the government label, I was simply another enlisted sailor who had fallen for the same bait and switch sweet talk that the recruiters used to lure wide-eyed fresh meat into the program. The deceit from a country I’d personally pledged my life to protect made my heart ache.

Had I known it was going to be all of this, I never would have enlisted, I sulked to myself while unlacing the strings of my heavy work boots. Without the strength or will to completely pull them from my feet, I let my recently polished boots hit the floor like two tar-colored bricks. Part of me wanted to erupt into a fit of angry tears while rampaging through the ship like the Tasmanian devil in protest of the extension, snatching up everything in my path and flipping it upside down with no remorse since no one batted an eyelash when the Navy did the same to my life. The other portion of my being longed to feel the strong, warm, and supportive embrace of my man to quell the anxiety that was building in my chest. I wanted off the boat and on land NOW!

Surprisingly enough, the deepest realizations can occur at the apex of confusion. Right before you black out into a fit of blind, uncontrollable anger, there’s a split second of clarity that unveils an alternate resolution.

It was as if I’d been dipped in cement and left on the boat to eventually dry in place or drown at sea; I was stuck.

Worst of all, I was in this position without ever being given the real information that any sane sailor-to-be would want to be aware of before making the life-altering, fully informed decision to sign a military contract, not just the cushy perks and service rhetoric the recruiters spew at young civilians to make them think the armed forces, specifically the Navy, is the golden ticket they’ve been waiting for.

While standing next to my designated, rectangular space – that now seemed more like a coffin – recollections of conversations I’d had with other sailors who both shared the same sentiments and looked like me came to mind: female, minority, or both, trying to cope and maneuver in a field that drew us in with alluring promises but only reluctantly welcomed us after we were officially sworn in. If we were in relationships where our significant others whispered all the sweet nothings we wanted to hear and then blindsided us with their true darkness when we least expected it, that would be deemed a toxic relationship, right? But when the culprit that’s misleading us is the United States government, it’s simply a deeply embedded part of the recruiting process.

Still beside my smaller-than-a-twin-size rack, my stomach twisted in knots, a resolution for my displeasure became clear! No one was ever 100 percent honest with me about the intricacies of day-to-day life for sailors at the entry level that we’d have to endure to simply maintain our positions – the real dirt and grime that lurks beneath the national emblem we pledge allegiance to. I was going to drop that truth bomb that no one else wanted to drop.

I’m going to do it, I determined, snapping myself out of the trance I’d fallen into after gazing at the untied boots now flopping on my feet after I’d roughly slipped back into them in my inspired scurry. Snatching a pen and notebook from my rack, I rushed the short distance to the berthing’s lounge, found a comfortably worn cushion on the same tattered sofa that hundreds of sailors had plopped down on for years, and began to make an account of everything I wish I would have known or been smart enough to ask before signing that dotted line. Focused and determined to help at least one person see the full picture before making a multi-year commitment where the only thing that was truly certain was uncertainty itself, I jotted down each and every topic a civilian should know before they become one of the enlisted.

AND SO IT BEGINS

There is a misconception among most parents of school-aged children that high school is the most formative time in their students’ social lives. For me, however, middle school was where the seeds for my future were planted. It was in the halls of Neshoba Central that the idea to join the Navy began.

Without discrimination, I was the girl who associated with everyone in school. It didn’t matter if you were in oversized, dark clothes and had pale skin with heavy black eyeliner and lipstick, the prissy girl who was slightly haughty, or the four-eyed bookworm who would rather hang out in the library than at a football game, if you were a part of the Rocket student body, that was all the connection needed for me to strike up a conversation.

Now, thinking back on it, some may have considered me as being odd. While everyone else carefully picked who they associated with based on common ethnic, economic, or religious backgrounds, I was the anomaly who didn’t care about the well-defined lines that the cliques had created for each other. I’d jump over them every time to create genuine bonds that would, unbeknownst to me, bode well for me throughout the years.

A result to being an open-minded individual was that it put my name and face in the minds of people who I may have never shared a class with. The ability to freely maneuver through my school’s corridors and meet people allowed me the capacity to not only listen but understand different points of view. It taught me how to empathize with issues within the school and world that didn’t necessarily affect my own personal life.

The foundation that was laid in middle school began to pay off for me once I moved on to my high school years. A social butterfly who’d been flapping her wings in middle school soared. For under and upper classman alike, I applied the same formula: kindness, honesty, and empathy, and won them all over.

It’s funny because there’s a stereotype about teenagers that portrays them as selfish and unable to see past their noses. For me, that wasn’t the case. Whenever a peer needed help with homework, an assignment, spare change, or anything else within reason, there I was. Extending that olive branch to everyone without prejudice was rewarded in abundance when school election ballots that had my name on them rolled around.

This constant wave of support helped me win nearly every single campaign I threw my name into the hat for, making me eligible for any high school club I desired. Was my record flawless? No, not at all. Even though no one wants to feel the crushing blow of defeat, I am a firm believer that every single thing ain’t for everybody.

My campaign victories led me to become the freshman maid, an honor that was bestowed upon the winner during one of the most thrilling times of high school life: homecoming season! It was exhilarating to be honored with the title, draped with a decorative sash, and highlighted at every mention of the celebration. But it was an even more humbling to know that those who chose me were fine with me shining.

As a bona fide people person, I had garnered their support in a genuine way. I didn’t trick them into putting me into the freshman maid position. My integrity spoke for itself. When I was selected as the student body vice president on top of the homecoming honor in my back pocket, I was convinced that this philosophy was the key to success:

There’s a way to create and inspire leaders and its definitely not by baiting them with mistruths.

It was in all the campaigning that I’d done through the years that I came to realize I loved working in a team setting. There was something about the well of joy that seeped from my pores whenever I was a part of a collective focused on a common objective.

As a young Black girl growing up, I was thankful that I was able to realize the traits that made me great at such a young age – a true blessing bestowed upon me from a woman who absolutely refused to see me do anything other than succeed: my mother, of course. She is almost solely responsible for the abundant charm that I had at that moment in time, with a double dose of charisma to boot. Learning never was never a challenge since I’d always been a quick and competitive student.

The only thing that God seemed to have forgotten to give me when he was handing out personal attributes was athleticism.

And when I tell you I wanted to be an athlete so bad…listen!

I could sit on the far end of the bleachers and watch the female players on the basketball team practice for hours. My eyes would widen in amazement at how effortlessly they shot the ball from long distances. I’d scan my brain trying to figure out how they’d become so fast and how they could run so long without passing out in the center of the court!

It was mesmerizing to the say the least. In no way was I able to jump very high or sport a jersey as well as the talented and fit female athletes who seemed to naturally grace my school’s teams, but beyond the physicality, there was pure magic to be found in witnessing the discovery of different ways to unite with other individuals for a common goal.

Black, white, yellow, purple, or green, none of that mattered if you had skills and dedication. I was also intrigued by the student-athletes’ laser-like focus on maintaining their grades and being a contributing factor on their team. Athletes were a tight knit collective that had each other’s backs, and I longed to participate in that bond. I wanted to bask in that addictive magic that made crowds flock to games day in and day out.

And then there were the letterman jackets.

Heavy, durable, and ever so cool, the letterman jacket is just one trophy of the golden trio of staple pieces of high school memorabilia that was coveted by everyone. You know the trio: the class ring, the diploma, and the infamous letterman jacket. The sleek, leather sleeves and school’s insignia on the chest made the jacket a badge of honor. I knew I had to get that jacket and be a part of a team, but I had no clue of how I was going to make it happen.

Until it hit me like a school bus.

Back in middle school, I had the honor of watching the color guard from the United States Navy perform at my school during a Friday night football game. The color guard is a group of sailors who participate in highly choreographed and ceremonial presentations of our nation’s flag. Like the same athletes I admired, they wowed me from the moment I first saw them. The dark blue uniforms looked like they’d just come from the cleaners with the sharp creases and ornate buttons. Their shoes were shiny enough for me to see the wearer’s reflection on the highly polished leather.

Their guns were less than ten feet away from my gated, sideline gaze! There seemed to be a million of them in my pubescent mind. Long, shiny weapons that I’d been taught were only murderous killing machines were being swirled around and tossed through the air in perfect synchronicity like they were measly batons.

The same jolt of astonishment that shot through me that day I saw the color guard was comparable to what I experienced when watching student-athletes take center stage. Sure, there were slight differences; the jocks at school weren’t twirling guns in the air or marching around with the American flag. But they worked together toward a common goal: presenting themselves and the colors of our country with pride. If one person was off in timing or out of step, it could mess up everything. It seemed a lofty challenge with worthy rewards.

That’s it, I thought.

With the memory of the color guard’s performance playing in my mind, I bounced around the idea of joining my high school’s NJROTC. The Navy Junior Reserve Officers’ Training Corps is a program created in collaboration with the United States military and Department of Education as an offshoot of the National Defense Act of 1916. Its mission, at first, was to teach cadets across the country the importance of citizenship, defending the honor of the country we called home, and completing acts of service.

I didn’t see a reason not to join. At the time, NJROTC checked all the boxes that made the decision seem like a no-brainer. The course would count toward my curriculum credits for graduation, I’d get to do athletic-type things to appease that appetite, and I’d learn skills that would help when it was time to step into the ‘real’ world. Like I did with a majority of the most complicated issues in my life, I called my best friend Janera to seek her guidance in making the right choice.

Janera was that best girlfriend that every teenager needed. Though we were different, we fit together perfectly from the moment we met. She knew me like no other and there was nothing I could hide from her. So, when I explained my uncertainty about joining NJROTC, she absorbed it all in silence.

It wasn’t until I’d spilled every concern, probability, and caution in her direction that she finally spoke.

Skyla, you know you my girl, she started. I got yo back. So, if you really want to do this…I’ll join with you.

My heart nearly exploded out of my chest when that kind offer escaped her mouth and met my ears. Chills went through me. Janera was a lot of things: pretty, funny, quick-witted... but the one thing she never was, was a yes man. Her willingness to go through such great depths to show her support made me feel like joining could have been the best move to make.

Once Janera validated that the thoughts running through my head didn’t sound like nonsense or would ruin my high school experience, it was time to speak to my parents. Sorting my thoughts out with Janera made presenting the idea to them a million times easier. This was one of the first major decisions that I was taking to my parents regarding my future.

Not only were my palms sweaty, but every fact that I’d researched and committed to memory added to my rising level of nerves and charged through my mind like a bullet train when I sat in front of them. Don’t get me wrong; although I was nervous, I wasn’t afraid. My success as both a woman and student were top priority to my parents, and they firmly agreed that joining NJROTC would be nothing short of beneficial.

Armed with the support of everyone I cared about most, I found a new challenge to undertake. Within a week of the conversation, I signed up for NJROTC and hit the ground running like Wile E. Coyote. Little did I know at the time, junior ROTC programs are prime grooming grounds for the armed forces. Had I known that this would be one of the first and last times that I felt a genuine sense of excitement in relation to the military, I wouldn’t have even started down that path.

A robust sense of responsibility gripped me from the moment I first put on a cadet uniform. I spent hours ensuring that each piece was perfectly pressed and that there was not a loose thread in sight. I made sure that my relaxed hair was pulled back and slicked down into the neatest bun imaginable. Exhilarated at the possibilities this new endeavor could hold, I was determined to be the most pristine and respectable version of what an NJROTC cadet was supposed to present.

Like everything else I attempted, when I became a NJROTC cadet, I stopped at nothing to excel in every area I possibly could. Though I was now a part of a united team effort like I’d always wanted, there was still a lingering thought in the back of my head: You’re not an athlete, so you’re still not good enough.

The nagging bout with the negative self-talk was one that I’d battle for years, but in the beginning I convinced myself that it was my subconscious way of pushing past my limitations – a way of tricking my mind into believing I was motivating myself. Most of the cadets were stronger, faster, or more agile than I was in some capacity or another, but I had far more grit than anyone could imagine. Even myself.

Every day was harder than the next in the beginning. There was so much information about our country’s armed forces to learn that it constantly felt like random military facts and jargon would start spewing out of my ears at any given time. To go from living a ‘normal’ life to a more regimented one that included uniform care and intense workouts took time to adjust to, but I did.

Determined not to be the weak link in the chain, I buckled down and busted my ass hard enough to earn a spot on nearly every team within our group. Was I trying to be a showoff? No. But was I showing out? Absolutely. Bullheaded since birth, it was in my nature to go as hard as I could to get the results that I wanted. I was dedicated to standing out in NJROTC and there was nothing that could stop me from being the best.

I did extra reps while working out to make myself stronger. I obsessed over the amount of sit ups that I could do, making sure that I didn’t start or end a day without completing hundreds. I ran longer distances to boost my endurance and even used weights to strengthen my muscles. And thankfully, my hard work paid off. Because of my borderline obsession with greatness, I was able to excel in the push up, sit-up, and sprint tests and to earn a spot on the unarmed exhibition drill team.

My program chief and commander took notice of me and how hard I worked. And that made them push me harder. Their expectations were high but because I had my own set of insane goals, I blew them out of the water. It only made sense to be the group’s gold standard.

Because I was good enough to excel is so many areas, it rocketed my stock in NJROTC. I was allowed to participate in the activities that made us all feel like rock stars. Just like the students on the sporting teams, we were able to travel across the country showing our stuff and building a lofty reputation.

The rush of it all was a thrill in the beginning. As a freshman, I was able to go out of town for competitions without parental supervision. These were the best times, and our team experienced new sights and how different parts of the country operated within each state’s lines. Some places were lively while others were more slow-paced and laid back.

We even got to see the beauty of military discounts and perks early on, too. You see, unlike most programs that cut corners when it came to transportation and accommodations, we didn’t go on cheap, cross-county field trips. These were overnight and sometimes over-the-weekend adventures. These were fun trips that never found us in cheap, hole-in-the wall motels with goopy, runny food from greasy diners that barely met health code standards.

That was not our testimony.

We got to stay in suites that seemed like the lap of luxury to our teenage standards. Our hotels had sleek furniture that looked like it had never been sat on before – colorful, yet classy paintings hanging on the walls, and some of the plushest beds known to mankind. And if there was a pool or a beach